


The Sunshine Double

by Smidget99



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Press and Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smidget99/pseuds/Smidget99
Summary: After some revelations in the press, Roger's post-Australian Open celebrations don't quite go according to plan.





	The Sunshine Double

**Author's Note:**

> I did think twice about posting this because it's RPF, but oh well. Very sorry for this. Am probably going to hell.

It was late.

After the match, the night had been a blur. He remembered cheers and the roar of the crowd; fans he signed photographs for; and Rafa, stood on the other side of the net, racket in hand, his face stricken in defeat. Roger remembers hugging him at the net, pressing himself into his side, holding back his own tears.

The Australian Open cup was gleaming on the dressing table, a symbol of his triumph.

It had been so long since he had tasted victory, the feeling was almost foreign – a distant memory. For once in his life, he had not planned for it, not dared dream of it, and suddenly he was 18 times Gland Slam champion. He had more than Rafa – more than anyone. After all this time, he wasn't sure he was ready for it.

He had celebrated with his team, with Mirka, and spoken endlessly to the press. He had been so happy, so overjoyed, Rafa had not occurred to him as anything other than his opponent for several hours; he had assumed, perhaps naively, that Rafa would be waiting for him when he got back. Slightly punch drunk and carrying his trophy, he had stumbled into an empty room.

While not alarmed by the absence, as he was sure Rafa had been commiserating with his family, he'd sent a message or two in enquiry. At first they were curious, and then they were angry, and finally they were worried.

It was so unlike Rafa not to respond to him.

Coming back down to earth with a bang, Roger tried calling.

No response.

He led awake for a long time, watching the numbers on the alarm click past. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he blinked and the numbers on the dial had skipped several digits. 

A cold hand snuck under the blankets and clasped his naked ankle.

Roger recoiled on instinct, startled from sleep, and kicked out a leg. There was a thump and an empathic, “Ow!”

It took Roger a moment to realise what was happening.

Rafa was there, blinking at Roger in the darkness. He had slid off the bed and was sprawled, rather ungracefully, on the floor. His clothes were scattered over the room, a sock over an armchair and his shirt over the end of the bed.

His lemon yellow shorts were hanging off one leg.

“Where have you been?” Roger’s voice was croaky, and accusing. 

He knew Rafa was upset by the loss, and understandably disappointed, but he had wanted to celebrate a successful comeback together. Rafa had never ignored his calls and messages before.

Rafa made to get up, but wobbled on one leg. He fell and then giggled.

“You’re drunk!” Roger realised, with shock.

He was wide-awake now, sat up in bed and looking down on the Spaniard.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Rafa drunk before. It was disconcerting. Tennis didn't allow much opportunity for boozy evenings. Sometimes Roger felt like they had missed out on something, but after a moment of watching Rafa sway listlessly on the carpet, he thought better of it.

“Sorry Rogi,” Rafa said, in a soft voice. He made a second attempt to get upright, and was moderately more successful, stumbling, but tipping headfirst into Roger’s shoulder to break his fall.

Roger was not feeling particularly sympathetic and rolled him, not gently, to the side. Rafa went, without resistance, and flopped his arms wide. A wayward hand almost hit Roger in the face.

Roger glared, but with his cheeks smashed against the covers, Rafa failed to see it.

It only increased Roger's annoyance.

He said instead: “I thought we were going to spend the evening together."

It had been standard procedure when they played each other. Or at least it had been. It seemed like so long ago. He was beginning to think that he might never play Rafa again – a thought that left him breathless with both relief and disappointment.

So much had changed since the last time. They'd both been injured. They had both suffered through rehab. They had both contemplated retirement. They had both decided to play on.

He was so glad now at the choice he had made.

He had beaten Nadal.

He – defeated – _Rafa._

The thought could barely compute. He felt almost dizzy with the pleasure of it – almost bursting with pride – until Rafa sniffed from below him.

Roger came straight back down to earth.

“I – I couldn’t come back,” Rafa breathed. He sounded small. Not at all like the player he saw and fought over the other side of the side – the imperious Nadal.

Roger swallowed and remembered the first time they had played at the Australian Open final. He had cried, on stage, in front of the world. Rafa had comforted him then, pressing into his side, his nose against his temple. Roger had been embarrassed, but also grateful. Rafa had been there for him, in some of his darkest moments.

He would try to be the same now.

“I know it must have been hard for you," he tried, clasping at Rafa's tanned thigh. "I know. But I wanted to be with you – to celebrate with you.”

Rafa was still face-down in the covers and his words were muffled. “Si, si, I know this."

Roger licked his lips, used to receiving Rafa's undivided attention. He'd never had to speak to his back before. He tried again.

“You weren’t answering my calls.”

“Si.”

Rafa sounded retched.

Roger didn’t know what else to say. He was upset but so was Rafa. He had won the Australian Open and Rafa hadn’t.

He thought Rafa would be happy for him. Roger had been happy for Rafa when he beat him. Well, maybe not happy, but he’d done a good job of pretending to be!

He let out a long breath. He wanted to say more – he was angry and disappointed in a way that he didn’t remember ever being with Rafa. But what more could he say?

He gulped, let go of Rafa's thigh, and moved away.

If Rafa didn't want to talk, then fine. He would get some much-needed sleep. It had been a long, exhausting day.

It wasn't how he imagined it would end. Suddenly he wondered whether losing would have been easier.

He contemplated the thought for a moment, imagining Rafa lifting the trophy, and quickly decided that winning was better after all.

Rafa stirred at his silence. He peaked out from the covers, his eyes almost black in the darkness, and heaved himself upright. He wobbled, but Roger did not move to catch him.

Rafa was looking at him closely, and his eyes, usually so soft, were focusing. He seemed to be reading the distress on Roger’s face. His demeanour shifted. He lifted a hand, and ran his fingertips over Roger’s temple.

“Sorry Rogi – really sorry,” he said, and this time he sounded like he meant it. He petted at Roger’s hair, just how he knew he liked it, and placed a wonky kiss on his cheekbone.

Roger nodded and led back down to sleep. He could be angry in the morning.

+++

The next time Roger woke, it was morning, the Melbourne sun shining through the blinds and scattering light across the duvet.

Rafa was sprawled on the other side of the bed, his arm flung across Roger’s chest and his face buried in his pillow. Rather than finding it endearing, as he normally would, Roger was annoyed. He hadn’t quite forgotten the previous night. 

He grumbled, flung Rafa’s arm off his chest and dragged himself upright. After the exertions of the previous day, his legs felt like led – heavy and uncooperative, and his eyes were stinging, like he'd not had very much sleep.

He could see the Australian Open trophy still sat on the coffee table.

He saw himself smile in the reflection from the wardrobe mirror.

It wasn’t a cruel dream after all; he was 18 times a Grand Slam champion.

Feeling considerably lighter at the thought, and willing himself to put the argument with Rafa from his mind, he staggered to his feet.

He glanced back down at the bed, shaking the grog from his mind, but Rafa slept fitfully on. Strange, as usually Rafa would be awake before him, pressing kisses into his hair and drawing Roger into his arms; Roger, always an enthusiastic sleeper, would try to squirm away and bury his head beneath the pillow. Rafa really must have drunk a lot. Roger suspected he wouldn’t be waking for a while.

Resisting the urge to kick Rafa’s leg when he passed, he pulled on a shirt and wondered into the lounge. He turned on the TV for background noise, glancing at the news reports of his Australian Open victory (interspersed with pictures of Rafa looking disappointed beside him) and retrieved his phone from where it was charging.

He was sure he had lots of press engagements to attend.

Sure enough, his phone was already blinking rapidly.

There were several messages from Mirka – urgent messages – asking him to call her. Several from his team too.

It wasn’t just congratulations, surely?

He scrolled through his texts, seeing congratulations from his friends and family, as expected. They were followed by his own missed calls to Rafa, and then missed calls, early in the morning, from Mirka. Then from his team.

What was happening?

Yawning, he opened a message, attached to a link to a website. Assuming it was an article on his Australian Open win, he opened it without question.

He was not in any way prepared for what he saw.

There was Rafa, dressed in his lemon shorts, at a bar from the previous evening. Roger did not recognise anyone who accompanied him in the pictures, strange in itself. There was one man who was in every shot.

As Roger scrolled, his heartbeat was increasing. Rafa - and the man, dressed in dark jeans and shirt - were talking, away from the crowd. Rafa was deadpan at first, but then smiling. The man got closer, edging forward, into Rafa's space. Rafa leaned towards him. They laughed, the man touching Rafa on the arm and then waist, and Roger was sure he was seeing red. He knew what the last picture was going to be, even before he got to it.

Rafael Nadal and _a man_ were kissing.

The man had leaned in, closing the space, and the brush of lips is all the press needed to pounce on the story.

Roger’s jaw was hanging open.

He suddenly didn’t think he was getting enough air.

“Rogi – you ok?”

Roger startled at the sound of Rafa’s voice.

The Spaniard was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, bleary eyed and confused. He had put his lemon shorts back on and one of Roger’s white Nike T-shirts. It almost hurt to look at him.

“What -?” Roger started. He choked on his own tongue and took several frantic gulps. Rafa was looking really concerned and wandered closer.

Roger almost fell over an armchair in his haste to get away from him. Rafa stopped, confused – his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

Roger stared at him unblinkingly, as though he'd never seen him before.

“What happened last night?” Roger croaked, after several breathless attempts.

Rafa cocked an eyebrow. “What you mean?”

“When you went out?” Roger asked, although he already knew the answer. His voice was high and unsteady. “Who were you with?”

Rafa was watching him with incomprehension. How could he not know? He had just stabbed Roger in the chest and Roger was haemorrhaging all over the floor.

“What’s wrong, Rogi?” he asked, with the air of someone trying to calm a spooked animal. It was often a tone he adopted when Roger was in one of his blacker moods.

“Don’t call me that.”

Rafa blinked. He was taken aback by the tone – reserved only for when Roger was really, really angry. “What’s going on?” he pressed.

“What’s going on is that you’ve been outed by international broadcasters!” Roger cried. “That’s what’s going on!”

“What?” he asked. He was blinking like he used to, years ago, when he could not understand Roger's English.

Roger almost threw his phone in his rage. He was trying to make sense of it, to understand. But all he could see was Rafa and that man. Together.

“It’s all over the news – all over the internet! You last night, with – with some guy!”

Recognition was dawning and Rafa was staring at him with a look of abject terror. “I didn’t – nothing happened.” 

“Really?” cried Roger, in increasingly hysterical tones. He was brandishing his phone like a weapon. He wanted a racket, so he could fling it through the air and smash it to the ground. He was so angry. He had never been so angry. “Because that’s not what it looks like!”

Rafa was frozen in the middle of the room. He was usually so bright, so full of energy – but it looked like life was draining out of him where he stood. His shoulders hunched and his back bowed – he looked like a boy again, floppy-haired and unsure.

“Show me,” he ordered, sounding distant. His face was shutting down now, concealing his usually obvious emotions.

Roger did not want to do anything Rafa said, but he needed to see it – the reaction. He needed Rafa to know what he had done.

He marched forwards and held his phone aloft, so Rafa could see, and scrolled slowly through the pictures.

It was like a strike in the chest to see them again, but he watched with a sick determination, his gaze flickering between the photos and Rafa’s drawn face. He usual tan was disappearing before his eyes.

Rafa snatched the phone from his hands. He scrolled, and muttered under his breath, “No, no, no."

The lack of response or explanation only fuelled Roger’s anger. He was on a roll now; the images – of Rafa and that man together – were racing through his mind on frantic loop, with growing embellishment, his imagination in overdrive. He could see them kissing, dancing, and fucking!

Roger almost heaved over the carpet.

“I won the Australian Open and this is what you were doing! Hooking up with someone else!” Roger cried. The words – saying it out load – was making it real. He almost choked on his own tears. He could feel his breath shortening and his eyes stinging. “Or were you doing that all along?”

He stopped at the thought.

He felt sick. Surely it couldn’t have been an affair? Rafa would never do that to him, right? The thought had honestly never occurred to him before.

It was Rafa. Perhaps it was bigheaded to say – to think – but Rafa worshipped him. Or he used to. He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

“No!” the response was instant and empathetic, but Roger was hardly listening. Rafa was pleading. He bounced on the balls of his feet, wanting to come closer but unsure of the response. He hesitated. “I wouldn’t – I just – I would never…”

Rafa’s grasp of English was deserting him. Roger didn’t care.

He strode to the door, his heart smashing against his chest, his pulse roaring in his ears. How could his heart still be beating? It felt as though it was broken.

He swung open the door.

“You need to leave now.”

His voice sounded like it was far away. But it was calm. Stone cold. The tears were gone. He was so angry – so upset – he was beyond them.

Rafa rocked on his heels, recognising the order, but after a moment of hesitation, didn’t move. He shook his head frantically. “No, Roger –“

“Get out.”

Nothing.

Roger didn’t even want to look at him anymore. He could see the pictures imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. He couldn’t take it.

_“Get out!”_

Rafa seemingly realising he was getting nowhere, and terrified of the tone, scrambled out the door.

Roger felt a brief moment of relief, before he ran into the toilet and heaved into the basin.

+++

The next few days were horrible. Maybe the worst Roger had ever lived through.

It was supposed to be a celebration of his triumph, of his successful return to the tour after a year of injuries, but all everyone was talking about was Rafa. He was the first man on the tour to come out as gay – or not come gay, but get caught in the act. It was big news. Rafa was a star.

They were going to come out together. After they had both retired. This wasn’t part of the plan. Roger wondered where it had all gone wrong.

Rafa used to look at him like he was sun. It was less now – but 2016 had been a difficult year for them both, and Roger had never thought that Rafa was no longer happy with him. Perhaps he had been naïve. Sportsman were notorious for being unfaithful, but Rafa was loyal? He had always thought so, at least.

Roger hated that he no longer felt sure of anything. Did he not know Rafa at all?

He looked at the pictures of Rafa and the man, talking, touching, kissing, and thought he was looking at a stranger.

+++

Roger watched Rafa’s press conference on his laptop with a lump in his throat.

He felt like he had done enough crying to last him a lifetime, but nothing had quite prepared him for watching his partner come out to the world without him. They had plans. Or at least Roger had plans. Rafa had nodded along, as he often did when Roger was speaking. 

Now, they had nothing. 

Roger sat on his hotel bed, eating biscuits, not quite believing what his life had become.

Rafa looked worse than Roger had ever seen him. Under the bright lights of the pressroom and under the lenses of their cameras, he was already sweating. His leg bounced beneath the table, a sure sign of his nerves.

His speech was short, clipped, and despite his anxiousness, he only tripped over the English once or twice.

Yes, he was gay, and he would like the media to respect his privacy.

Normally, Roger would have been proud of him.

The questions were the hardest. The press were almost fevered with excitement, tripping over themselves in their haste to ask questions. Rafa looked like he hated answering every single one.

“Is he your boyfriend?” said one.

“No,” replied Rafa, and Roger let out an anxious breath.

He almost choked on his biscuits.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” asked another.

“Not anymore,” replied Rafa.

+++

Roger had spent the weeks after Australia training, away from the world, in his own little bubble.

He knew that the news of Rafa’s sexual orientation was grabbing headlines and he wondered how Rafa was handling the scrutiny.

He felt sad and angry; sad that it was something they could not handle together, and angry that Rafa had exposed himself to the situation in the first place. After so many years of being careful, he had blown it, with some random guy he barely knew. There were no words for how much that hurt him.

Rafa kept ringing and sending texts, but Roger did not reply.

He trained instead. He liked how it felt when he pushed his body to its limits. He liked the distraction. He liked going to bed in the evening feeling aching and tired. He thought less.

He closed his eyes and fell into exhausted slumber. He dreamed of gleaming trophies, red clay and the dark of Rafa’s eyes.

The bed felt cold without Rafa, empty, and he found himself rolling from side to side, trying to fill the space. It felt almost numb – so overcome with different emotions that instead he felt nothing. He would blink up at the ceiling, wondering where it had gone wrong. Had he done something? Had Rafa been unhappy?

He didn't know and perhaps that was worse of all. 

Mirka was solid, dependent, as she always was, and he wondered what he would do without her. Train for tennis and sleep. Probably nothing else.

He was not looking forward to rejoining the real world, and looking forward to seeing Rafa even less. He knew it was inevitable, that they were on the same tennis tour, but he was afraid; afraid that he would see Rafa, the reminder of his infidelity, and his worst fears would be confirmed. Never before had he considered himself a coward, but he felt like one now.

He blamed Rafa for that too.

The arrival of Indian Wells changed everything.

He couldn't hide anymore. 

With it came the press, their questions and the hovering fear that Rafa would suddenly appear before him.

He had expected the questions; his team had briefed him about to say and what not to say, but for the first time in years, he was dreading the press conferences. He felt like he would say something harsh, or sad, or revealing, and then everyone would know.

He wanted to defend Rafa, of course – the urge to protect him had not gone away – but at the same time, he wanted to leave him to flounder. He wanted Rafa to suffer, like he was.

He didn't say that, obviously.

When the question came, he clutched at the water bottle, and took a frantic gulp.

“What do you think about Rafa Nadal coming out of the closet?"

"I think that we are here to play tennis," he said. It sounded wooden, even to his own ears. He used to pride himself on his ability to charm the press and was annoyed at himself for the failure.

It wasn't like him to feel so floundering – so out of control.

He was Roger Federer.

Maybe he needed to remember that.

"Have you and Rafa spoken since the reveal?" asked another.

"Yes," he said again. And then, in order to appear less robotic, "I support Rafa, of course."

That was not a lie.

"Did you know about Nadal's sexual orientation?"

“I think it’s his business,” he snapped. "Not yours."

It certainly wasn’t his, anymore.

+++ 

Roger’s outburst in the press had hardly been the cool and collected appearance he was going for, but it had stopped the questions, for the time being.

He focused on tennis because he couldn’t bear to focus on anything else. Pictures of Rafa and that man were everywhere. Everyone was talking about it. Players, staff, even his team.

Indian Wells felt more like a press tour than a tennis tournament.

He was on the same side of the draw as Rafa. Because of the previous year's injuries, they were seeded lower than usual – projected to meet in the fourth round.

As soon as Roger saw it, he knew - with complete certainty - that it would happen. 

Rafa was going to fight for that match. A motivated Rafa was a terrifying one. Roger knew there was no way he'd lose.

Roger didn't want to lose either. After the success in the Australian Open, he wanted to prove that he was not a fluke – he wanted to prove he was a competitor on any surface, anywhere. No matter how old he was. 

And he did prove it. He won his first three rounds.

And Rafa won his.

They would meet in the Indian Wells fourth round.

Despite the pain the match would bring him, he felt glad to put behind the uncertainty; rather than a shadow, lurking in the dark, he knew when and where he would face him.

Which is why it was a surprise – a deeply unpleasant one – that after a carefully planned schedule, he ran almost headfirst into him on his way to practise.

Fuck.

Rafa looked equally astonished.

Their teams fell back. 

“Roger.”

“Rafa,” Roger replied automatically.

They shook hands, their standard greeting in public and so Roger could hardly refuse him; Rafa gripped him tight, and Roger suppressed the urge to recoil. He was sure Rafa could feel his pulse thundering in his wrist.

Rafa's grip was far too pincered to be casual and his palm was damp with sweat, so at least he wasn't the only one suffering.

Roger detangled himself and moved away. Not enough to arouse suspicion but enough for him to form coherent thoughts again.

There were people watching.

He tried again for calm and collected but blood was rushing to his cheeks. He was still angry, and embarrassed even – he felt like a fool. He felt like everybody would look at them and see; they would see that Roger loved him and that he was broken inside.

For once in his life, he had nothing to say.

Rafa, used to taking his cues from Roger, scrambled to fill the silence.

“Thank you for what you say,” he said, his dark eyes soft and sincere. Roger looked at his earlobe instead. Unlike the rest of him, it was not very tanned. “I see your interview.”

“Of course,” said Roger woodenly. 

Rafa glanced at their spectators, who didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss, and lowered his voice, “Rogi – please, let me explain.”

“Not here,” Roger hissed. He shifted his bags from one shoulder to another, and blinked up into the sunlight. It was less painful than having this conversation. “I need to get to practise.” 

Rafa did not seem deterred. He had a look in his eye similar to his demeanour on court – he wanted something and he was going to fight to get it.

“We talk later?” he pressed. 

“No,” said Roger. Then, in case Rafa had forgotten: “I have a tennis match to prepare for, you know.”

Was anyone even playing tennis at this tournament?

Rafa smiled swiftly, but it did not reach his eyes. He looked like he had aged a great deal since Melbourne. “I know,” he conceded, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Tomorrow then? After?”

Roger was going to refuse again, because the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it, when Mirka swooped in beside him. Her smile was brittle and her hand on his back, as always, was steady and firm.

He felt a brief moment of relief, that she had rescued him, before she said: “He’d be happy to. See you tomorrow at 7.”

Roger opened his mouth to protest, but Mirka pulled on his arm and they were off to practise.

He dare not look back at Rafa.

He was screaming inside.

+++ 

“I can’t believe you did that to me,” grumbled Roger, after he had gotten back from practise and collapsed headfirst onto the bed. He felt like never getting up again. He wished Mirka would leave him alone to wallow in his misery.

She patted him comfortingly on the leg. “Why not? You weren’t going to do anything.”

Roger peered up at her through his hair. He felt defensive. She was supposed to be on his side. “Of course not – did you see those pictures?”

Everyone from the plains of Africa to snows of Antarctica had seen the photos. Roger was sure the penguins probably knew about them.

“Roger, you don’t know what happened,” said Mirka, in a maddeningly even tone. “You’ve seen a snapshot of the evening, that’s all. Just let him explain.”

“No,” Roger grumbled.

Aware that he was acting like a teenager but unable to care, he gave his pillow an angry pat. Mirka rolled her eyes.

“You’re being stubborn," she pointed out. True, but for once, he felt as though it was justified. "You’re making things worse for yourself by not talking to him. You’re assuming the worst.”

That was certainly true. Roger in his head was beginning to picture Rafa and that man getting married.

He had even pictured the flowers.

They would be blue.

+++

The match was easier than Roger had anticipated.

The locker room was the hardest. While usually they would stare in opposite directions, Roger reclining on the benches as Rafa did warm-ups on the floor, this time Roger could feel the heat from Rafa’s gaze. He would look up from beneath his lashes, his eyes pleading, and Roger would feel his heart squeeze in response. Even after all this time, he was not immune to Rafa's stares.

He hoped he looked calm, but Rafa always had a way of seeing through him – seeing through the calm exterior to his insides. It made him vulnerable in a way that he had never felt before. He had trusted Rafa, with his deepest, darkest feelings, and it had all been thrown back in his face.

He swallowed, angered, and determined, and looked up; he met Rafa's gaze head on, with all the hurt and anger he had bottled. Rafa recoiled slightly – for just a moment, taken aback – before he looked away.

Roger felt a twisted sort of glee.

He got to his feet, slung his bag over his shoulder and marched out into the sunshine.

He was ready; he was going to do this. 

And he did. 

Looking at Rafa over the top of the net sent shivers down his spine. He had played Rafa before of course, and had wanted to win, but this was different; at the Australian Open, he felt grateful and honoured to see Rafa across the net. He felt anger now.

He served with every ounce of his frustration. The ball flew over the net like a rocket.

Ace.

Ace.

It felt so good. Like release.

There were so many things that he wanted to know – so many questions he wanted to ask and things that he wanted to say. Some stuff he wanted to scream.

Rafa, oddly, did not put up much a fight. He came to the net defeated, but unsurprised. His touch was fleeting and Roger ached for it.

Suddenly he felt exhausted. Now that all the adrenaline was gone, now that he released his frustration, he felt cold and sad.

It didn’t feel like much of a victory.

+++ 

It felt like the longest wait for 7pm that Roger had ever lived through.

After the match, he rushed straight back to his room. He had a shower and scrubbed himself raw.

He threw on his Nike kit, which looked luminous white against his pink skin, before changing into jeans. He looked at himself for a long time in mirror and brushed his hair obsessively, sticking the wet strands back against his scalp.

He didn’t look good, but he didn’t look half as bad as he felt either.

Mirka threw him a slightly worried glance before she left with the kids, and made him promise to be good.

He chewed on a stick of cucumber and half-heartedly promised that he would.

He was already replaying their previous conversation in his mind, the images playing over and over, like a terrible slide show he couldn’t ever switch off.

He changed his shirt again.

When the knock on the door came, he jumped. He stood for a moment, torn between answering and diving under the bed to hide, when he was struck with a sudden need to see him, to speak to him; he wanted to rage and to scream. He wanted answers.

He opened the door with a bang, before he could talk himself out of it.

Rafa jumped slightly in surprise, as though he hadn’t knocked on the door; he gave an awkward wave, cringed, and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was already red. “Hola.”

For once in his life, Roger wasn’t sure what to do. His throat felt clogged again. “Hi.”

There was a pause as they assessed each other, where normally they would embrace, but Roger only waved him through.

He backed away, against the doorframe, to stop Rafa brushing against him.

Rafa grimaced, noticing, as he always did, and swept his hair nervously behind his ear.

While normally Rafa would sprawl over the furniture, and make himself at home, he hovered awkwardly in the centre of the room, his leg twitching. If Roger had felt more generous, he might have asked him to sit, but he was not feeling generous.

He could not remember a time things had been so awkward between them – it hadn’t been so for years. When Rafa had first entered the top rankings, he had been in awe of Roger, only speaking when spoken to, and worshipful in his gaze. His gaze only looked sad now and Roger wondered if that had changed before Australia. He probably didn't want to know.

He coughed, to fill the silence.

Rafa licked his lips, and peered at Roger from under his cap. “How are you?”

Roger crossed his arms. He was defensive already – he could feel the anger and fear bumbling beneath the surface. He struggled for control. He hadn't felt this way for years – not since he had conquered (or at least suppressed) his on-court demons.

“How do you think?”

Rafa, used to his shortness, barrelled on. “You playing well – good match today.” He smiled swiftly. “Too good for me!”

“Thanks,” Roger sniped. Then, before he could stop himself: “I’m surprised you’re here. The last time I won you went out and pulled random strangers in bars.”

Rafa flinched, as though Roger had struck him and Roger felt a brief moment of regret; he had told Mirka he would behave himself. He was trying really hard to be calm, but every time he thought of the pictures, he felt hot with embarrassment.

He lashed out. 

Rafa, knowing best not to engage in an argument when Roger was in that sort of mood, tried a different tact. “I miss you.”

Roger let out a long breath, his heart stuttering. He felt as long Rafa had poured freezing water on a raging fire – he had gone from angry to very sad, very quickly.

“Please don’t,” he implored.

“I’m sorry – I – I’m so sorry I did this to you,” Rafa said. His eyes were soft and Roger could not look away. He was looking at them in a whole new light – had those eyes, once so full of admiration and longing, been lying to him all along? Roger thought he was good at reading people – at reading Rafa, in particular. Suddenly he wasn't so sure. He wasn't sure about anything. 

Rafa smiled sadly. He seemed to know where Roger's thoughts were taking him. “I love you, no?”

Roger laughed, the sound bubbling from his chest in disbelief. “Do you?”

“Very much, always, no?" Rafa implored. "I was – I was upset by losing and I – I feel like I couldn't be with you. I was coward. Scared. Sorry."

Roger had gathered that much, but the words still felt like a blow to the chest. After the years he had spent congratulating Rafa on his victories, it burned that Rafa had been unable to do the same. Did Rafa think he had enjoyed watching him winning all of his old trophies? Did Rafa think he enjoyed it when Rafa ground him into the clay?

He hated it. But he had dealt with it, because he loved Rafa more.

“So you fucked off with someone else?” he cried. “I’ve never done that to you! I would never!” 

“I didn’t cheat on you, Rogi," said Rafa, pink in the face and jittering frantically. He seemed in a haste to get to words out – to make Roger understand. "The pictures – they are bad, I know. But nothing happen!”

Roger crossed his arms, unrelenting. “Excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.”

“He get friendly and I let him," he said, brushing hair behind his ear behind his ear over and over again. "But that is all – I come back to you, yes?”

Rafa edged closer and Roger for fear of showing his vulnerability, did not move back. He stood his ground.

Roger did remember. He remembered Rafa being so drunk he couldn’t even climb into bed with him.

Torn between wanting to know, and really not wanting to know, Roger hesitated. He did not think himself a coward, but he was afraid to ask, afraid that Rafa’s answer would destroy him. 

After a breath, he looked at the ceiling and asked, “Ok, so what happened in the hours from when that picture was taken until you came back to me?”

He had to know. Even if the answer was not want he wanted to hear.

Rafa shrugged, looking ashamed of himself. “Drinking.”

Roger nodded. He knew that already, of course. He had smelt it on Rafa’s breath that evening. “With him?”

“Him and others.” Rafa licked his lips, but did not look away from him.

Once Roger started, he couldn't stop. “Who is he? Do you know him?”

“No!” cried Rafa. Roger didn’t think Rafa had blinked through the whole conversation. His eyes looked so intense they were a little wild. “He came up to me in bar. He chat with me.”

“About what?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know, Rog. The tournament – the loss.”

Roger laughed. “Oh, and he offered to kiss it better, did he?”

As soon as he said it, Roger knew he had hit the nail on the head. Rafa’s face flickered and he looked at Roger’s shoes. The moment of hesitation was all Roger needed.

“Oh my god, he did!” Roger felt as though he was in actual physical pain. He was picturing it, and his heart squeezed. “You let him!”

“No," Rafa insisted. "When he did that, I tell him no. Told him to leave.” 

Roger didn’t know what to say. He was gulping, trying to regain his composure. Rafa was watching him sadly, looking like he wanted to reach out and touch, but holding himself back.

“Nothing else happened?” he asked, hoping, beyond hope, that was answer was no. He didn't think he could survive another blow.

“No, promise,” said Rafa, and Roger let out a long and wheezing breath. Rafa looked sincere, but Roger didn't feel like he could trust his own judgement anymore. He felt even more confused.

His head was a mess. Everything was a mess.

Finally, Roger said, “I want you to leave.” 

It was a lie. Roger wanted Rafa to stay, he wanted to lie down and let Rafa comfort him, but he could not forget betrayal. Could he forgive it? He didn't think himself a particularly forgiving man. His pride would not allow it. 

Rafa nodded, having said his peace. “If that’s what you want, I leave." He looked at Roger expectantly, but Roger said nothing. He reached for Roger's hand and quickly squeezed at his fingers. "I’m so sorry, Rogi.”

Roger nodded. He did not pull away.

“Good luck. The tournament – you win, I think," said Rafa, and then we another desperate clasp at his hand, let himself out.

+++

Roger did win the tournament.

After the brief elation at the Australian Open, which had so quickly turned to ash, Roger was glad to have something else to celebrate – something that wasn't so closely associated with Rafa. Stan had been his opponent in the final, and was as solid and simple as ever. His company was a pleasant distraction to the turmoil surrounding the rest of his life.

He knew of his relationship with Rafa, but said nothing – seemingly realising that it was too raw for Roger to discuss. Roger appreciated that and felt thankful for his friendship.

As happy as Roger was with his performances on court, he felt relieved that the tournament was over. He didn't have to worry about running into Rafa in every dark corner, or have to pretend to be nice to him.

It still didn't stop Rafa from trying to contact him.

Over the next few weeks, Rafa sent him strings of messages. Like the messages that he used to send when they were together. Rafa had never been much of a writer, particularly not in English, his messages always short and sweet, but they were frequent.

Roger never replied, but he didn’t delete them either.

 

_GQ ask me to do cover! I no look as sexy as you Rxx_

_Toni say I am moron for messing things up with you. He right as always Rxx_

_The press follow me now. I wish we do this together Rxx_

_Te querio, Rogi Rxx_

+++

One message was different than the rest.

He was practising, in the sweltering heat, at the start of the Miami Masters, when Rafa pinged a message. He gulped on his water, expecting much of the same – perhaps another declaration of love which made him heart clench – but instead, received something which sent shivers racing down his spine.

_They tell me he is speaking to press. Call me PLEASE!!_

Roger did not call him. He could not bear it. 

He buried his phone at the bottom of his bag and clutched at his chest, suddenly feeling out of breath. He wiped at his sweaty brow.

When he left practise hours later, his phone was full of messages. Several from Rafa, some from Mirka, and even a couple from Stan.

As it turned out, Nathanial Rodriguez remembered a lot more about the night than Rafa did and was all too happy to share it.

The story was all over the internet. Roger stared at the headline with his heart in his throat. 

_EXCLUSIVE: My gay night with Rafael Nadal_

The pictures, now seared on the back of Roger's eyelids, accompanied some new tasteless shots of the man, reclining on a sofa in his underwear. He was good looking, Roger grudgingly admitted, with his dark eyes, dark hair and sharp jaw. There was something twisted in his expression, like he knew he was causing Roger pain and was happy for it.

Roger did not think he had ever disliked a person he had never spoken to so much.

The story was even worse. Typical of a tabloid, it sounded smug and gleeful. Nathanial described meeting Nadal in a club with friends; how he had been friendly and flirtatious; how they had drunk together; how Rafa had been taller than he expected; how they had kissed; and how the night had been unforgettable.

It didn't specify what happened between them, but it was heavily implied; left to the readers overeager imaginations.

Even Roger was picturing it; Rafa going back with him, climbing into bed with him, being naked with him.

Roger knew that if he ever had the displeasure of meeting the man face-to-face, he was going to punch him in his perfectly chiseled jaw.

+++

The story was released just in time for the Miami Masters. 

Just when Roger thought the madness might be over, Nathanial had pored gasoline over the raging fire. Poor Rafa was under scrutiny more than ever before, like a bug squirming in the limelight. He had never been a fan of the press, a bone of contention between them for a long time (as Roger thrived under the attention), but he was usually better at hiding his contempt.

His press conferences were getting shorter. And his eyebrows were getting higher.

Roger watched the madness from the sidelines, hoping he didn't look too interested. He had spent years trying to perfect his poker face when he was raging inside. He had gotten quite good at it.

Rafa was not so good.

“Do you have any comment on the recent article about you?” asked one particularly persistent journalist.

“I tired of talking about it," grumbled Rafa. His arms were crossed decisively in front of him. "I want to play tennis.”

“Is the story true?” the journalist continued.

“No!" cried Rafa. He looked very angry now, spots of red appearing high on his cheekbones. "He lies."

He sounded frustrated, knowing that nobody would believe him.

The journalist, nodded, took notes, and carried on.

He had gotten what he wanted.

+++

Roger couldn’t help himself, after the press conference, when he had retreated to the safety of his hotel room, he called him.

“Aren’t you supposed to say ‘no comment’ - isn’t that was the lawyers told you?” he said, without preamble.

Rafa sounded pleased to have heard from him. Roger could almost hear his smile. “You have been reading my messages?”

“Obviously,” snapped Roger. In a moment of generosity following his shortness, he tried again, “You sounded angry in the interview.”

“Si," he said. "Angry at them, Nathanial, angry at me.”

Roger nodded, even knowing that Rafa could not see him. “I’m angry at you too.”

There was a pause, and then Rafa laughed – it was choked, slightly breathless, but a laugh nevertheless. “I know, Rogi.” Then, more sadly, “I know.” 

“He’s just milking the story – for money, for fame,” said Roger, feeling his own anger rise in his gut.

He knew better than anyone than being successful made you a target; there would always be despicable people in the world who would try to take advantage of that. He had never trusted easily, but Rafa always had – it was one of the things Roger had always admired most about him. He wondered if that would change. 

“But people, they believe it,” said Rafa. There was a pause, and then he added, in a lower tone, “Do you believe it?”

Roger swallowed. With his phone pressed against his shoulder and ear, he picked at his nails uncertainly.

Rafa waited.

“I know it’s a lie,” he said eventually. He shrugged, as though they were having the conversation in person. “Or at least some of it. You came back to me.”

“Si. You know this,” said Rafa. “No one else.”

Roger licked his lips. He imagined, for a moment, what would happen if people knew the truth; would they even believe it?

“You would tell them?” he asked, although he already suspected the answer. He had never questioned Rafa's loyalty before, but the pictures had changed everything.

“No, I never do that," Rafa insisted, sounding fierce, like Nadal. "Not unless you wanted.”

Roger wasn't sure what he wanted. The pictures had set in motion events that couldn't be undone. Everything was different now.

Except his feelings for Rafa. They were the same.

Hating himself for sounding so pleading, but unable to stop, he whispered, “It’s all a lie?”

“Si, it is lie," said Rafa, seemingly realising that Roger wanted to be comforted. "We drink, that’s all.”

Roger closed his eyes, listening to Rafa breathe, savouring the words.

For the first time, Roger believed him.

+++

After that, things got easier. For the first time in months, Roger felt like he could breathe.

The burning intensity that had driving him through Indian Wells had dissipated; he felt tired for the first time in months, less wired, and happier for it. The tennis was harder than it had been before; he was feeling his age, but he enjoyed the struggle.

Rafa was playing well. The personal issues had helped his tennis; he was playing with confidence again and a confident Rafa was dangerous indeed.

Roger was glad for him. After the months of chaos, he deserved it. He wasn't dreading facing him anymore. When he knew that the final would be decided between them, he felt butterflies.

Rafa seemed to feel the same. He arrived at his hotel room that evening.

Roger was glad Mirka and the kids had already left, so nobody was there to bear witness to his squeak when he opened the door and saw Rafa on the other side.

Rafa raised his eyebrows. 

Feeling very self-conscious, in a hoodie and sweats, with his hair sticking upwards, Roger had to remind himself that Rafa had seen him far worse. It didn't stop him from discretely trying to flatten his hair with one hand.

"Umm..." He said. And then cringed inside.

Rafa smiled hesitantly. "Hola."

Roger started again. "Hello." He coughed, and shuffled to the side. "Would you like to come in?"

"Si."

They stood in the lounge of Roger's suite, looking at each other. Roger was aware of the mess he had left all over the floor and kicked it out of the way. Rafa watched him with something like amusement. His eyes were crinkled.

It loosened something in Roger's chest; he was glad to see Rafa happier.

“We playing tomorrow,” said Rafa.

It was pretty much all Roger had been thinking about, but he didn't say that. He went for a much cooler, “I know.” 

“Could be your third title – amazing," Rafa continued, and he looked genuinely happy for him. It was the look Roger had been hoping for after the Australian Open. Hoped for and never received. "The sunshine double.”

Roger’s heart skipped. He looked at the floor. “Thanks. But I haven't won yet." 

Roger was watching the lights of Miami city gleaming out the window. He knew that Rafa wanted to say more, so for once, he was silent.

“Roger, please let me say, I’m so sorry for what happened," said Rafa, after several beats. He came closer, slowly, as though waiting for Roger to back away. "It was stupid – stupid mistake, no?”

Roger sighed. It did not give him any pleasure to watch Rafa grovel. 

“Rafa, you’ve already apologised," he said.

"Then what do I do? Tell me please."

Roger didn't know. Rafa always looked at him, expecting answers, like Roger magically knew everything, and Roger just didn't know what to say. He felt lost too. He smoothed his hair and scratched his nose, struggling for words. There was no point in pretending, he just had to be honest.

"I just... need time, I guess. I want to forgive and forget – I do. But it's hard for me, you know?" He looked up beneath his eyelashes to find Rafa staring at him unblinkingly. "I don't forgive things easily. I don't trust people easily."

Rafa smiled. "Rogi, I know this."

Roger smiled back. "I guess you do."

Rafa's hand cupped at his cheek and his fingers trailed into his temple. Roger licked at his lips and Rafa looked at his mouth. "What you want, Rogi?"

Roger laughed, as he always did, at the thickness of Rafa's accent. "I want to take things slowly," he said. It would perhaps be more convincing if his hands hadn't fallen to Rafa's waist; his grip was so tight it must have been painful.

"Whatever you want," said Rafa, in the earnest way that he did. His fingers were in Roger's hair again, which he always claimed to love, tugging and stroking at the curls.

His nose nudged at Roger's, and he placed gentle kisses on his face. "Te querio," he breathed, against his skin and then again into his ear. Roger shivered. "You worth more than any Gland Slam. Sorry I make you doubt that."

Roger smiled, leaned into him. “More than 14?”

Rafa laughed, deep in his chest, the movement vibrating Roger to his core. He squeezed Roger around the waist, looking both unsurprised and long-suffering. “Si, more than 18,” he said, with a playful roll of the eyes.

That's all that Roger had wanted to hear and Rafa knew it. 

Feeling like he could implode from relief, he closed the space between them and fell into a breathless kiss.

Roger had missed him so much.

It wasn't just going to go away, but it was a start.

+++

When Roger won the tournament, Rafa's hand on his back was warm and soft.

He felt unbelievable relief, and joyful in a way that he hadn't felt in months.

During his press conference, a journalist (the same one as before), asked the Rafa questions again. Perhaps hoping that he could rise to the bait once more.

Roger hated to disappoint.

He fiddled with his water, licked at his lips. His heart was pounding. Not in anxiousness, but in anger. After months of silence, he was itching for a fight.

"Have you seen the stories published last week regarding Nadal?"

He wasn't blind. Or deaf. "I have."

"What do you think of them?"

He shrugged, squeezed at the bottle. He cleared his throat. "I think they've got nothing to do with tennis."

"Do you think that they're lies, like Nadal claims?"

Roger's back stiffened. "I believe Rafa. That man is lying."

"Why do you say that?"

Roger knew what he was saying, even before he said it, but he doesn't stop himself. He wanted to talk; he wanted to tell them. "He wasn't with him."

"How do you know?"

Roger looked at the cameras, and at the unblinking faces, and saw the pictures flash behind his eyelids. He took a breath, feeling almost serenely calm, and announced, “He was with me.”

Oh well.

So much for taking things slowly.

He never had been very good at that.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short one-shot, not really sure what happened!
> 
> Comments are appreciated <3 I feel like I've been sucked into a Fedal black hole


End file.
